Final Thoughts on Internship in Literary Careers

My final thought was that I really enjoyed this class. I liked reading the different pieces people submitted, I liked editing them (for the most part), and I liked working with my fellow students.  I will be in the class again next semester, so I'm really looking forward to it. And, just because I can, here's a picture of my cat with her kitten.

Thoughts on House of Prayer

First impression: this story is weird. This impression doesn't change as I finished reading this story. I liked the way it was written, from the point of view of a young boy who isn't quite right in the head. The descriptions were so real and gritty and disgusting. I really felt bad for the boy narrator, but he seems rather accepting of his situation. Overall I liked it, weird as it is.

Anthology of Poetry

I'm not a crazy fan of poems. I prefer Dr. Seuss, but sadly he's not college level reading. So now I'm out to find five poems that not only interest me, but are pieces I can read and enjoy, without needing to read too deep into them.

Taken Up by Charles Martin
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19253

For starters, this one rhymed! When reading poetry, I find that makes it easier for me to follow along, to keep pace in my head.The scene the writing described is beautiful, and the tone is happy, light, even though its talking about alien abduction.

A Poison Tree by William Blake
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15524

Short, sweet, and to the point. Its about hate and revenge and in the end the author comes out on top. There's no happy ending for one of the characters.

All Hallows' Eve by Dorothea Tanning
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/243566

Its October, which means I and other like-minded folks are already thinking Halloween. And this is a great creepy spooky poem. The rhythm and beat are moving, and the content gives you chills and is creepy in a way most people don't expect.

The Universe: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack by Tracy K. Smith
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/243876

I'll admit, this one is weird. And in a way, beautiful. Its musical, its talking about the universe, and the imagery is stellar.

Furry Bear by A. A. Milne
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/241538

Every grown-up kid knows the author's name. None other than the creator of Winnie the Pooh. This poem isn't about the famous bear, but it is about a bear, and winter, and warmth. And its cute. Its a happy little poem that ends this whole thing on a high note.

Toast

Our Daily Toast, written by Brenda Miller, is a piece written by an older writer about her love of toast, but it easily could have been written by myself. Once again, I read this piece before it was assigned, because I was intrigued about the title and hesitantly hopeful that it actually was about toast, unlike some other deceptively titled works I've read (Horse Latitudes, I'm looking at you). And it was, and I was delighted, because I adore toast as much as the author. If I could get away with only eating toast I would; its literally the only food I cannot live without. I could really connect to the writer, because she completely and perfectly described how simply wonderful it is to eat toast. Its a sacred ritual for both of us - the choosing of bread, the waiting for it to brown, topping it with jam or just plain butter, and finally eating it. I don't have a dog to share toast with - and I'm not sure I'd want to share my toast anyway - but I do have parents and a sibling who always complained about the toast crumbs in the butter. And sometimes toast does lead to epiphanies, because it takes a while for bread to brown - especially for me, I like it dark - and there's a lot of time to stand around. The author writes in a very soothing manner, and that to me is exactly what toast is about. I can't really read too much into the writing because it really just clicked with me. And now, I'm going to finish typing, and go make some toast.

Thoughts on Nephilim

Nephilim by L. Annette Binder was about a lady in the seventies who had a condition where she grew incredibly tall. Not overly, just seven feet. It talks mostly about Freda's later years and her relationship with a young boy in the neighborhood as he grows up.
This was a decent story. Not my favorite so far, but it was okay in its own right. I liked reading about the lady's life more than reading about the nephilim - the Biblical giant creatures that Freda seems to associate with.
The little boy - Teddy - was written very well. There was a very clear little boy's voice in my head when I read his parts. Reading about the gold Gremlin was the best part. Both of my parents had that car as their first cars - my dad's was orange. Nothing says first 70s car like a Gremlin.
If there was any sort of underlying theme or intended purpose to this piece, I didn't pick up on it. I just enjoyed it as a story.

Thoughts on The Fifth of July

The Fifth of July by Nat Akin was published in Ecotone Journal in Fall 2007. The narrator tells about the afternoon after his grandmother's funeral. The scene starts with the grandfather picking corn in a field with his son helping him. The action then moves to shucking the corn in the carport with two great-aunts, the grandfather and father, and the narrator.

The father is clearly emotional, but trying to cover it up by being stoic. His actions all say that he deeply misses his newly-departed mother, and doesn't understand how the grandfather can calmly shuck corn after burying his wife. The grandfather is just as stoic, but in a much calmer way. He does have an outburst, but it's directed towards his sisters, and it doesn't seem to be a reaction towards his wife's death. The grandfather is very calm and emotionless about losing his wife, and that bothers the son.

At the end of the piece, the narrator - who is clearly a younger person - asks their father what happens when corn isn't harvested and is left in the field. The father replies, with all the weight he had been carrying that day, that "It'll just get very hard."

I understand the point the narrator was trying to make. Farmers, especially older ones, like the grandfather written about here - who I can't help but imagine looks like my grandfather - tend not to get worked up about things, even death. Yes, he'll be torn up inside and grieving, but they'll keep that inside, and not let anyone see. I can easily imagine a scenario just like this happening if one of my grandparents or great aunts and uncles passes away. The younger father, who doesn't understand the farmer mentality (probably left home to work in the city) doesn't get why his dad isn't reacting the way he's expecting, and that bothers him. But really, the grandfather's reaction is nearly spot on.

The only problem I had with the story, which made it really hard to concentrate on, is the whole picking corn thing. It's early July, they're harvesting corn, and they mention that its a late harvest. Corn doesn't grow that fast. Yes, it does on big commercial farms in warmer climates, with specially modified corn, but this this is an old couple's farm, probably just a small garden plot. If the story had taken place in late summer, I would have bought it. But ignoring that crucial detail ruined the story for me, especially when the rest of the piece could very well have been a snapshot of an occasion I will have to go through in the future.

The Wee Free Men

We were asked to come up with a jacket blurb for our favorite book. It was hard for me, because I came up with something really good, but then realized that what I had was almost word-for-word what was actually on the back of the book. So I had to start over.

"When they were kicked out of Fairyland for drunkenness, rebelliousness, and causing general discontent, the Nac Mac Feegle – the Wee Free Men – found themselves in heaven. A beautiful land with things to fight, steal, and cause mischief in.

To them, its heaven. To Tiffany Aching and the rest of the world, it’s The Chalk, the uplands where sheep graze and the weather and hills used to belong to Granny Aching. But Granny is gone now, and the hills are unprotected. When something slips through a crack in the world and steals Tiffany’s little brother, she knows she cannot simply lie down and take that. Armed with a frying pan and an army of angry blue men, Tiffany makes her way to Fairyland to get her brother back. But it’s not sunshine and happiness there, and getting out again may be harder than she thinks."

Phantoms

The first full-length prose piece in the Pushcart Prize collection is Phantoms by Steven Millhauser.
Let me start off by saying I LOVED this story. I actually started reading it before I realized it was assigned because it looked interesting, and I wasn't disappointed. This was right up my alley in term of fiction I like to read.
The way the story was divided into little chunks, talking about explanations for the phenomena or people's reactions, mostly sat fine with me, but its not my preferred way of reading something - I prefer linear when it comes to fiction. Thus, the case studies were my favorite parts to read, to learn about the people's different reactions to what's happening.
Our narrator is obviously someone who grew up in the town, and is now an adult with adult concerns about what's happening in the town. They're personally seems mostly unphased by the phantoms, but that just may be due to the way they're writing.
The mystery of the phantoms is never solved, and they're not explained by any rational or scientific means. They're just there. I love unanswered questions of that deal with fantasy elements. Just throw something randomly mystical into modern day with no explanation and that's something I'd read.
I'm sure the author wrote this as a metaphor for unanswerable things we encounter in modern life, like death or taxes or how headphones always become tangled, but I loved it as straight up fiction and I liked it that way.

Horse Latitudes

This is my response to reading the short poem Horse Latitudes by Kathleen Flenniken from the collection of Pushcart Prizes.

The speaker or narrator is isn't identified, but they speak with a very direct tone - very scientific - but at the same time very touching.

The occasion for this piece is very obvious. The scene described is an actual floating island of trash in the Pacific called the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. All the garbage that ends up in the ocean ends up there due to currents and wind patterns. And then it stays there because of the same currents. All the garbage eventually breaks down because of the salt water and corrosive chemicals, but not only does it take a very long time, they break down into tiny particles that end up being eaten by fish, and then by larger predators like whales, dolphins, and us. And its all due to us.

The poem makes it clear that its a problem, and a problem that we created. Even if we deny blame, or say its not an issue, deep down we all know its true. The imagery the author invokes flows smoothly and lets our imagination really take over. Even if we can't see it, our mind lets us know its there.

A floating patch of garbage isn't the usual topic of a poem, but it is useful and in a way beautiful. But its beautiful like an oil spill is beautiful: it may look pretty, but its obviously very bad.

I liked this poem, and not just because the great big floating patch of trash is something that I'm aware of and rather interested in. I genuinely liked it for the words and imagery, and that usually doesn't happen with me and poetry. Also, the only thing I didn't get was the title.

Farm Impressions

My Three Color Choices. They Look Identical Don't They?

14A-6: Dalen’s Duckling

The color is seems far too gold for a real baby duckling. Or maybe ducklings are that color underneath all the fluffy down. Only white ducks start as the standard yellow fuzzballs that are so often portrayed in media. Sadly, most people don’t realize that most white ducks, when they’re not selling insurance, are a breed of market ducks and meant to become someone’s dinner. Ornamental, egg producing, and even other market ducks are usually other colors, mostly brown and blacks. There’s a very lovely breed of egg-producing ducks that’s a shade of blue-black that would look great on someone’s living-room walls.

Our farm is lacking ducks. We’ve had chickens, pigs, cows, horses…all the standard farm animals from a picture book except goats and ducks and maybe geese. We’re getting goats this spring, to no end of excitement from me. But there’s been talk of getting ducks, just like there was talk of goats and pigs before it came to pass. My mom is particularly partial to the blue-black ones, mostly because they’re great egg-layers. On our farm, function is more important than style.

There’s a pond in the corner of our backyard, but only for about nine months of the year. Every summer it dries up, much to the dismay of whatever tadpoles remain. If we ever got ducks, we’d put a hut there. The babies can swim in the murky water as long as it’s there, chasing mosquitos and damselflies and getting covered in duckweed.

14A-5: Glazed Corn

Ripe corn rolled on a stick of butter, fresh from the pot. It’s too hot to eat, and the fingertips holding it up protest the treatment until the holder grows tired of waiting and takes a bite despite the heat. The thick outer membranes of the kernels end up stuck between teeth, the only downside to eating fresh corn on the cob. Otherwise the entire experience is enjoyable.

I’m the only member of my immediate family who rolls the cob around and eats like that, starting in the middle, moving to the tip of the cob and then to the end. Everyone else goes back and forth down the rows. I’ve been eating that way for as long as I’ve been eating corn on the cob, but it took until I was sixteen for my parents to notice. The two years I went without corn on the cob because of my braces were the worst. It’s just not corn on the cob unless the corn is on the cob. Scraping it off and eating with a fork is just wrong.

I can only eat fresh corn, because I’m opposed to anything that’s been canned or frozen. Corn on the cob for us comes fresh from the garden in front of the house, pulled and peeled the afternoon before dinner. But the freshest corn is eaten right in the garden. Raw. Raw corn is nothing like cooked corn. It’s colder, for one thing, and sweeter, and there’s a grittiness that doesn’t come in cooked corn. I like fresh corn.

Sometimes, while the corn is being peeled, a surprise will come wrapped in the husks. A tiny cob of corn sometimes grows alongside the dominant piece. The kernels aren’t fully formed and the whole thing isn’t very solid. They’re also good to eat.

14A-4: Chickadee

We don’t see the chickadees, but we can sure hear them. The little birds around the farm learned really quickly that they shouldn’t land on the ground. My youngest cat, Roye, is a vicious hunter. If any mice end up in the chicken coop we can just put her in there with them and they’ll go away. My first two cats, Spot and Lily, were great hunters in their prime, but they’re older now. Spot likes lying in the sun and Lily disappears for days to stalk the woods. I’ve seen her behind my grandparent’s house, a block down the road. She was hanging around the bird feeders.

My grandparent’s bird feeders are the only places I see chickadees. Tons will flock around the feeders all the time, and whenever we have dinner at their house I watch them out the patio doors. Sparrows and those other flighty little birds come and go in shifts, and sometimes blue jays show up to boss and bother the others around. All sorts of birds show up at the feeders.

One winter afternoon, my grandma called me over because there was an owl in the trees. Anyone who’s seen my jewelry drawer or my room knows I like owls a lot. And it turns out it was a Barred owl in the tree, not something ordinary like a Screech or a Great Grey owl. Not only was it exciting to see an owl during the day (usually that’s reserved for Great Greys and Snowy owls), but Barred owls are rarer than most. Their closest cousins are the Spotted owls, who only live in the old-wood forests up in Canada. I snapped a few pictures of the owl in the tree from indoors, but when I went outside to get closer it flew away.  But it always flew back to the feeders when I moved back. It stayed there until nightfall, before it left for good.